


Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

by Celyan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Baked Goods, Domestic James Bond, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-03-30 00:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celyan/pseuds/Celyan
Summary: Bond is playing a game, of that Q is certain. He’s going to find out what that game is, even if it means finally making the man his exploding pen. Well, maybe not that.





	1. Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in December, as a part of MI6 Cafe’s 12 days of Bond challenge. I got one chapter done and then had to leave this for a bit, but now that I have a plan and everything, I can finally come back and hopefully finish this sometime soon-ish. Well, that’s the plan anyway. Also, future chapters will probably be of similar length. 
> 
> Thank you to midrashic for betaing this first chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Bond bakes. Who would’ve thought?

Q is in the middle of getting settled on the sofa for the evening with a still steaming cup of tea and an episode of Doctor Who on the telly when there’s a knock on the door. Just that single one, loud and clear, broadcasting sureness and confidence in that simple sound, and Q gets a strange feeling that he recognises the sound — even when he isn’t expecting anyone and even with only a handful of people knowing his address.

Q gets up from his comfortable nest of blankets and two cats (both of whom show their displeasure at being jostled with twin trills of annoyance) and makes his way to the door. He checks the cameras for a visual of his unexpected visitor and gets the surprise of a lifetime (or perhaps only the surprise of the year, considering all the things the Double Os get around to with alarming frequency) when he sees none other than James Bond standing there, dressed casually in a pair of nice jeans and a dark green sweater. 

Q blinks once and then twice again; he had no idea that Bond was aware of where he lived, let alone that it was the same building the agent himself had recently moved into. 

After a moment of consideration, Q finally disengages the locks and opens the door. “Good evening, 007,” he greets Bond, voice perfectly polite and showing exactly none of his earlier surprise. 

“Evening, Q,” Bond replies and flashes one of his dazzling smiles. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” 

“Not as such, no,” Q replies. “This isn’t a social call, is it?” 

“Well, actually, I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar from you. I’ve run out and don’t exactly fancy running to the shops in this weather, and then I remembered that Q lives here too…” 

“You. Want to borrow sugar. From me.” Q blinks, wondering if he really heard what he thought he did. 

Bond nods. “Yes. If you have some, that is.” 

Q blinks again, but ultimately decides that questioning Bond would only lead to madness and/or mayhem. “I do, yes. If you’ll wait for a minute, I’ll go and get it.” 

It takes him only half that time to locate his half full bag of sugar and bring it back to Bond. When he hands it to the man their fingers touch, if just barely, and Q has to bite the inside of his right cheek to contain the shiver the touch causes. 

“Thank you, Q, this is much appreciated,” Bond tells him and smiles, and then wishes him a pleasant evening. Q repeats the sentiment and watches as Bond disappears up the stairs; he remembers to close the door only when a questioning meow comes from the sofa, and engaging the locks takes long enough to bring him fully back to reality. He returns to his tea and cats and the episode he’d barely started to watch, all the while trying his best not to think about Bond at all. (He fails, of course, but no one needs to know _that_.) 

*

The second time there is a knock on his door it has been close to two hours, two episodes and three mugs of tea. Q gets up more quickly now, curious and wondering what Bond is after this time. Surely he isn’t simply returning whatever amount of sugar he didn’t use? 

When he opens the door to Bond, he is greeted with a familiar smile and a tray of something that smells absolutely divine. He looks at Bond and utterly fails to mask his surprise at realising that Bond, the famous agent 007, needed the sugar he borrowed from him for biscuits instead of doing anything more nefarious with it. 

“Hello again, Q,” Bond says. “I wanted to thank you for the sugar, so I made you these.” And he offers the tray to Q, who blinks but accepts it with only a little less grace than he normally would.

“Oh, um, thank you,” he says, glancing at the tray and Bond in turn. “I did not quite expect this, though. Um. Would you like to come in for a bit?” 

“I would love to,” Bond replies, and Q steps aside from the door, letting Bond in. He closes and locks the door, and when he turns back to his unexpected guest he sees that his cats have already found him. Bond has bent down to scratch Pebble between her ears, and Oscar is currently sniffing at his free hand, neither of them showing any signs of moving away from the man. 

”Your cats are adorable,” Bond tells him, though keeping his attention fully on the cats. 

Q smiles slightly. ”Yes they are. Well, I shall go and put the kettle on. You’ll find me in the kitchen once my darlings decide to let you move again.” And with that, he leaves with the tray of biscuits in hand. How exactly did Bond know that homemade baked goods are his weakness?

Bond appears in the kitchen ten minutes later, Pebble in his arms and Oscar following close behind. Q takes in the scene and feels his heart melting, just a bit, at the way Bond is with his cats. 

”Perfect timing,” he says, indicating the two mugs of tea on the table with the tray next to them. 

Bond grins as he puts Pebble down and takes a seat. ”My timing always is.”

Q snorts and stirs some honey into his tea. ”If you say so.”

Bond takes his tea with a splash of milk but neither honey nor sugar, and they both remain quiet until Q finally caves and takes a biscuit. They’re round and brown and buttery and practically melt in his mouth, and he may or may not have made a small noise after the first bite. He can feel Bond’s eyes follow his every move, and he is perfectly aware that he is blushing, but for some reason that doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like something he just does around Bond. 

”These,” Q declares after finishing his biscuit, ”are simply amazing.” 

Bond smiles. ”I’m glad that you think so.” 

”I had no idea that you baked, though,” Q says, his tone questioning. 

”Well, I rarely do. Only for special occasions.”

And that, Q thinks even as he carefully chooses another biscuit from the tray, must be why Bond is always so successful with his missions: he knows exactly what to say and do to reach his goal. Right now, said goal seems to be getting into his Quartermaster’s good graces, and Bond is already more than halfway there. 

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but Q is a firm believer of always acknowledging the facts. And right now, the fact is that Bond is clearly up to something. What that something is, only he knows, but if nothing else the biscuits have awakened Q’s curiosity and established a deeper connection between the two of them.

Q eats his biscuit and watches as Oscar jumps onto the table to headbutt Bond. 

*

Later, when Bond has finished his tea (and eaten all of one biscuit because Q wasn’t going to let him leave without getting at least a taste of his own creations) and Q is again alone with his cats, he suddenly remembers that not all shortbread recipes use white sugar; he can clearly see that the one for Bond’s biscuits certainly didn’t. 

He glances at the remainder of the biscuits innocently sat there on the kitchen table and shakes his head, amused but also touched, then reaches for one and bites into it. They’re delicious, and Bond baked them just for him, so he’ll take full enjoyment from that fact. And if he just so happens to reciprocate the gesture sometime in the near future, well, it’s only to show Bond that he, too, can play this game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/brown-sugar-shortbread/) you can find the recipe that I used as an inspiration for Bond’s biscuits.


	2. Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q can also bake. Bond probably should have guessed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s finally the second chapter. I’m afraid I can be quite a slow writer these days. I’ll try and be better now that it’s the 007 Fest month, though, but I’ve learnt to make no promises. 😅 Anyway, I hope that you like this as much as I liked writing it.
> 
> Thank you to castillon02 for the beta and the encouragement.

It’s surprisingly not that late when Q comes back from work with two bags filled with carefully selected groceries. He’s fresh from outfitting 005 for his mission to Madrid, but before that he had a long morning of helping 007 finish his mission in Croatia. It’s almost funny, in retrospect, that the most time consuming part of his day was actually making sure that Bond managed to catch his flight undetected. It may or may not have included a transfer in Belarus of all places, with a two-hour layover, but Q digresses.

Q greets his darlings at the door, Pebble meowing and headbutting his feet and Oscar more or less climbing him like he was a kitten still (which he hasn’t been in two years, and Q would really have expected him to learn that by now, but alas, the life of a cat does not apparently work quite like that), but eventually he manages to make his way to the kitchen. The cats follow his every move, so while he unpacks his bags and stocks his fridge full, he also unearths two cat treats and feeds them to his eager kitties. 

It’s only afterwards that he can start his plan. 

*

Finishing up his baking (spicy ginger shortbreads, a recipe he found after looking for something suitable with which to pay back Bond’s surprising and delicious gift two weeks prior), Q moves the cooling rack with its generously glazed occupants aside to let them stand. He glances at the clock and smiles; it’s time to set the rest of the plan into motion. 

Of course, having planned everything meticulously - and perhaps helped things along with some well-placed electronic nudges here and there - Q is perfectly aware of how much time he needs, and more importantly, how much time he has at his disposal before the most opportune moment to take out the rubbish. So he gets the lasagna in the oven well in time to take a quick shower and change into something more presentable yet still comfortable (for he doesn’t wish to broadcast his plan to its intended victim before its time), not even the cats flick an ear as he grabs the rubbish and heads out. 

Q steps through the front door at the exact moment a door of the taxi on the kerb opens, and out steps James Bond, for once looking less than perfectly put together in his slightly wrinkled suit. Bond raises an eyebrow at the sight of his Quartermaster, and Q simply nods and stops to wait for the man. His timing is at least as perfect as Bond’s, and no one can deny that. 

”Evening, Q,” Bond greets him. ”You’re not here to check up on me, are you?” 

”Heavens, no,” Q says, indicating the rubbish he’s still holding. ”I’ve dinner in the oven, and this seemed like a good time to deal with some chores.”

Bond nods. ”Well then, don’t let me keep you from your dinner.” And he makes to move away from Q and to the door, but Q’s next words halt that. 

”You look tired, 007,” he observes. ”You’ve not had time to eat yet, or am I mistaken?” 

”You’re not mistaken,” Bond replies, just like Q knew that he would. He does, however, favor Q with a slightly suspicious look; perhaps he wonders why Q would ask that right now, after the less than professional banter between the two of them from earlier and with Q being more than aware of Bond bringing back nothing but the earpiece from his latest kit. 

”In that case, would you like to join me? I made lasagna, so there’s more than enough to share.” 

”That would be lovely,” Bond says, in a tone that manages to exude both politeness and baffled fascination; it really is beautiful, Q muses, how things come together in a way he has planned and foreseen. 

”Excellent,” Q says briskly, ”the lasagna should be ready in fifteen minutes. Do come and knock on my door then, would you?” 

Bond gives a nod and a smile, and Q takes it as his cue to leave. He makes his way past Bond for the bins, and keeps his attention on the task ahead even when he can clearly feel the man’s eyes on his back. 

*

Exactly fifteen minutes later, there is a knock on his door. Q throws one last glance at the table he finished setting five minutes ago and deems everything perfectly passable. He’d decided to forego using a tablecloth or anything of the sort for he doesn’t wish to give Bond a false impression of the evening; this would simply be two coworkers sharing a meal and nothing more. 

Not that Q expects Bond to think of it as anything else, but one can never be too careful—that he has learned from his time at Six. 

Making his way to the door, deftly avoiding stepping on curious kitties on his way, Q opens it to a Bond who has clearly used his fifteen minutes wisely; the man looks a lot more relaxed now, wearing a pair of slim-cut jeans and a blue sweater so dark it could just as well be black, and with his short blond hair freshly washed. Q manages to stop himself from staring, but it’s a near thing. 

”Do come in,” he says, moving away from the door and deliberately averting his eyes. ”Watch out for Oscar though, he seems to be in an especially energetic mood tonight.” 

Bond does as he’s told for once, entering and then lowering himself down on the floor to accept a sniff and a headbutt from two inquisitive felines. Pebble consents to be scratched under her chin while Oscar simply climbs up into Bond’s lap, which is made all the easier by the position the man is in. Q is aware of it all even while locking the door, and he cannot stop a tiny smile at the patient way Bond behaves with his darlings. 

“I just took the lasagna out of the oven, so it should be ready to be eaten in a bit,” he tells Bond while walking past him and heading towards the kitchen. He’s expecting Bond to lag behind a little (as the last he saw, Pebble was rubbing her head against the man’s hand, and Oscar seemed to be perfectly comfortable in his lap) so it doesn’t surprise him when there’s no indication of Bond following him. He’ll know the way, though, so Q goes to get the bottle of wine he’d bought for the occasion. 

Not that it is an occasion, per se, he just happens to know that Bond likes a bit of fine dining. And the bottle of Sicilian red wine he’d chosen (after a fair bit of googling, for Q has never been much of a wine drinker) would be a great pairing for the food, if the website he’d consulted was as reliable as he was led to believe. 

Q brings the bottle to the table and glances at the setting with a critical eye. There are the lasagna and the bowl of salad he’d made in the middle, and he’d set the two plates and cutlery on the opposite sides of it. He’d even unearthed the proper wine glasses he’d received from his family as a part of the house warming gift when he’d gotten his first flat, because surely James Bond would not consent to drink wine from any random glass like Q does on the rare instance he feels like opening a bottle of white. 

When Bond finally arrives a few minutes later, Q looks up from searching for the napkins and sees Oscar proudly sitting on his shoulder, and he cannot stop the small chuckle from escaping. Bond grins at him, perfectly unconcerned, and takes his place at the table while Pebble settles down on the floor next to Bond’s chair and begins to meticulously clean her face. 

“You can put him down, you know,” Q says lightly. “He’s not exactly allowed on the table while I eat.” 

“He’s not on the table though,” Bond points out quite sensibly, and Q rolls his eyes while he, too, takes his place opposite Bond. 

“Suit yourself.”

Bond, being the perfect gentleman, offers to open the bottle of wine - Q takes note of the expression on his face as he sees the bottle and suspects that his research has borne the right fruit - and pours the wine first for Q. Q’s a bit surprised at how well Bond manages all of that while balancing an adult cat on his left shoulder, but perhaps he should credit it to his training. He shrugs mentally, takes a small sip of the wine and watches as Bond puts some lasagna on his plate. 

The dinner is a quiet, comfortable affair; they eat their food and drink the wine, talk about random topics (Q finds himself sharing several little anecdotes about his time with the cats), and the atmosphere is light and easy. Q does, however, keep a close eye on Oscar, ready to save Bond should his little darling decide to do something he really shouldn’t, like jump onto the table or tip over Bond’s wine glass. (Bond, though, seems to be paying more attention to him than to his dinner and the cats combined; Q blinks but does his best to ignore it.) 

Afterwards, once Q has cleared the table (graciously declining Bond’s offer to help), they relocate to the sofa with the rest of the wine and the cats. Oscar finally deigns to come down from his perch, claiming Bond’s lap as a secondary territory, and makes himself comfortable there. Q smiles and excuses himself for a minute, returning with a plate of the biscuits he’d made for Bond in mind. 

Bond raises an eyebrow as soon as he sees Q return with the biscuits. “I didn’t know that you baked,” he says after the plate has been set down on the coffee table and Q has offered him one. 

“Well, I don’t do it often. For special occasions, mostly.” 

Bond chuckles at that, recognition clear in his eyes, and takes a bite of his biscuit. He finishes it in three more bites and looks at Q with approval. “These are lovely. Is it ginger and lemon that I taste? Along with a hint of cinnamon?” 

Q nods. “You’re correct. I felt like making something with a bit more bite to it, this time.” 

“You certainly succeeded,” Bond tells him and takes another biscuit. 

“I’ll send you the recipe,” Q promises and reaches for a biscuit, as well. 

*

Bond gets up to leave an hour and a half later, when the bottle is empty and the plate of biscuits have been all but demolished. They’d eventually ended up watching some telly (there’d been an episode of Doctor Who conveniently on by the time Q had thought to turn the telly on) and realised that most of their favourite characters were the same. (Q still hasn’t quite decided how he feels about _that_.) 

Q gives Bond most of the leftover biscuits to take home, assuring him that he’d left some for himself as well, and watches as he disappears through the door. He’s feeling more than accomplished, all things considered, and heads to the kitchen to take care of the dishes. He and Bond must be even now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/spicy-ginger-shortbreads/da54bce9-e4d1-42d1-b865-985222cf97bb) you can find the recipe that I used as an inspiration for Q’s biscuits.


	3. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond raises the stakes, so to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back, sooner than I expected. (Thank the Fest.) I had a lot of fun while writing this chapter, hopefully it shows. 🌞

The familiar knock on his door surprises Q fresh out of the shower. He’s wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and not much else, shivering a little due to the chill of the December air and toweling his hair dry while pondering his options for dinner. His day was long and tiring, starting with an amused Bond spending most of his morning annoying Q in his branch (he only mentioned an exploding pen once during that time though, which Q is tempted to count as a win). This was followed by a meeting with M and one of his contacts, as well as an afternoon spent monitoring 001 while she surveilled her target, and it wasn’t until 7.30 PM before he was able to leave.

Q blinks and spares a moment to think of his lack of clothing, and then makes a quick decision. He grabs a discarded cardigan from the back of the sofa and puts it on while walking to the door. Dealing with the locks takes enough time for him to hastily button a few buttons so that he (hopefully) looks less dishevelled. 

”Evening, 007.” He greets Bond with as much nonchalance as he can muster, ignoring the way his hair probably resembles a bird’s nest more than ever before. 

”Good evening, Q, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important?” Bond says, eyes taking in Q’s body from his bare toes to the collarbones peeking from the half-buttoned cardigan and the tips of his still damp hair. 

”No, nothing important,” Q assures him, acutely aware of how much more put together Bond looks in the chinos and designer shirt he’s wearing. 

“Good,” Bond says. He sounds a little amused, but Q’s willing to let that slide as he is fully aware that this is the least dressed he’s ever been in Bond’s company. (Well, it had to happen one day, he thinks philosophically; after all, they do share both workplace and living space, being in the same building, and Bond has never been known for his considerate timing.) 

“So, um, please don’t take this the wrong way, 007, but why are you here now?” 

“I _was_ going to invite you to a dinner, but then I realised just how long your day has been. Since I assume that you’re not in the mood to actually leave the building, I decided to order takeaway for us both and invite you over to mine, instead.”

Q blinks. “Oh, I see.” He pauses and looks at Bond. “You do realise that you are presuming a little, now?” 

Bond just grins. “Tell me you have other plans, and I’ll leave you to it.” 

Well. Q cannot really claim that, especially since he cannot even honestly say whether he has enough food at home to cook anything nutritious right now. He certainly doesn’t have the will to do so, in any case. So he nods and says, “I don’t have any plans as such, no.” 

“Excellent. I shall expect you once you’ve gotten changed, then, shall I?”

And with that, Bond turns away and heads to the stairs, leaving behind a rather bemused Q and two meowing kitties who have just realised who was at the door and who would really love to run after him. Q barely manages to close the door before either of them escapes, and he wholeheartedly blames Bond for everything that follows.

*

Q stands before Bond’s door twenty minutes later, dressed and with his hair combed and dry, and takes a deep breath before finally extending a hand to knock on the door. He’s never been this close to Bond’s flat, not even that one night when he’d been half asleep and accidentally pressed the lift’s button to the highest floor, as he’d barely left the lift before realising his mistake and therefore deemed it safer (and faster) to simply remain there for a second try instead of using the stairs. 

And now he’s there, about to see just how the agency’s most famous agent lives with his own eyes, invited there by the man himself. He has to wonder at it a little, deep in his mind, though on the outside he shows nothing but cool collectedness. 

Bond opens the door half a minute later, smiling as he sees Q standing there. ”Do come in,” he says and gestures for Q to enter, so he does. He’s aware of the way Bond’s eyes follow his every move, though, but he dismisses it as just the way the man is. 

”Our food should be here in ten to fifteen minutes,” Bond continues as Q moves further into the flat. 

Q nods and glances around curiously, taking in the ambiance of the flat. It’s an open and bright space with a high ceiling, at least the part that Q can see from where he stands. He spots the fireplace and the near floor-to-ceiling windows next and thinks that it all suits Bond, somehow. 

”Did you know that you have two new admirers,” he tells Bond, hiding his smile by turning his head away slightly and looking at the painting hanging on the wall instead. He hadn’t really expected to see something like it there. 

”I do?” Bond says, moving to stand next to him. 

”Indeed,” Q nods. ”They were both staring forlornly at the closed door after you left. I had to trick them to be able to leave my own flat.” 

Bond chuckles lightly. ”Really, now? You should have brought them along, then.”

Now Q turns to face Bond, feigning exasperation. ”So that they could fawn over you the whole night? Thank you, but I'll pass.” 

”Jealous, Q?” 

”You wish.”

Bond murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like “Yes, I do,” but Q’s sure that he’s misheard, so he ignores it and instead focuses on following Bond to the living room and accepting a tumbler of Macallan whisky the man offers him. He’s not much of a whisky drinker, but he knows the good stuff when he sees it, and this is certainly it. 

They take a seat on Bond’s brown velvet sofa, leaving an appropriate distance between the two of them, and sip their drinks in amicable silence. Eventually they start to talk about things like work and what Oscar and Pebble have been up to lately, and in fifteen minutes there is a knock on the door, just like Bond promised. 

Bond gets up to open the door and accept the food, and Q stays behind to finish his drink. He’s a little curious about what Bond has ordered for them, but he figures that he cannot have chosen too badly. Besides, it’s not like he has too many other options available - he could always make eggs and bacon, he supposes, but that’s a bit too breakfast-y for him to stomach right now - so any food will be better than nothing, really. 

Bond says something to the person at the door, which is followed by a quiet laughter, and then Q hears the click of a closing door, so he gets up to follow Bond to the dining room. The large wooden table has been set for two, and Q notices that Bond must have really made an effort as the setting wouldn’t look out of place at a fancy restaurant. Momentarily he feels like he really ought to have dressed better for this dinner, but a glance at Bond manages to dispel those thoughts - he didn’t change into a dinner jacket, after all.

Bond gestures for Q to sit down while he begins to unpack the large box he’d received. Q does as he’s told and follows the process curiously. He recognises the name of the restaurant as soon as he sees it, and he cannot but be impressed as he knows that the place does not offer takeaway, and that it’s notoriously difficult to get a reservation from there. Well, unless your name is James Bond, apparently. 

”Impressive,” he comments, because he’s sure that Bond can read it in his expression anyway.

”Only the best for my Quartermaster,” Bond replies with a flirtatious smile. 

”Flirting gets you nowhere with me,” Q reminds him. ”Haven’t you learnt that by now?” 

”How about delicious food?” 

”That remains to be seen, I suppose.” 

Bond chuckles and begins to serve the food, offering Q the best pieces as if that is the most natural thing to do. And maybe, to him, it is. Q keeps quiet and politely thanks Bond when he’s done, and then takes a bite of the best bacon-wrapped sea scallops with maple glaze that he has ever tasted. He makes a face to mask it, and perhaps to confuse Bond a bit, and contemplates on not elaborating any and instead leaving Bond guessing, but eventually decides to show some mercy. 

”This is just unfair,” he says, lightly, and watches as Bond tilts his head and politely waits for clarification.

”What is, Q?”

”The fact that you’re making me eat this. How can I eat my own cooking any more after I’ve had this?” 

Bond chuckles at that. ”Just say the word, and I’ll take you to The Hague or arrange for another meal like this.” 

”Now you’re just showing off,” Q grumbles, but he cannot help smiling a little, as well. 

”Like I said, only the best for my Quartermaster.” 

”Yes, yes, that’s what you keep saying. One might even suspect you of having an ulterior motive, here.”

”But I do,” Bond says. At Q’s raised eyebrow, he continues with, “To spend more time with my new admirers, of course.” 

“Of course,” Q echoes, but deep inside he’s touched, because his darlings mean the world to him. And having Bond, who he is starting to tentatively consider a friend, show such care for them, that means a lot to him as well.

They finish the rest of the appetisers and move onto the main course with Bond telling him some well chosen stories of his missions from before Q’s time as the Quartermaster. Q listens eagerly, for while he has read many a mission report in his time at Six, those are still very much different from hearing it straight from the agent in question. And he likes to think that Bond wouldn’t be sharing them with him if he didn’t consider him a friend, too. 

There is dessert as well, because of course there is - Bond wouldn’t be Bond if he hadn’t arranged for a full three-course meal - and Q makes a show of rolling his eyes and telling Bond that there is a thing called trying too hard, has Bond perhaps heard about that? The man simply smiles and tells Q to eat his tart, so Q does. 

However, what really astounds Q comes after they retire to the sofa. Bond, after noticing the shiver of cold he thought he had hidden well enough (because Q has dressed with the weather in mind, wearing one of his warmer cardigans over a nice button-down shirt; but of course he has forgotten that Bond, being among the more warm-blooded of the species simply doesn’t keep the temperature of his flat as warm as Q is used to), offers him one of his own sweaters. It’s a well-worn cashmere one that smells like the man and feels softer than any of his own sweaters.

Q tries to say that he’s fine like he is, thank you. But when Bond threatens to help him put it on, Q acquiesces and pulls it over his head, immediately feeling like drowning in what is, essentially, a heap of fabric that covers him from head to toe. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration for he’s really not that much smaller than Bond, but for a flustered moment Q does feel like he is surrounded by everything _Bond _. He manages to not show that to the man himself, though. (At least he hopes that he does.)__

__”You okay there, Q?” Bond asks, because of course he does, and looks at him with barely concealed amusement._ _

__”Perfectly fine,” Q states firmly. ”Now, you said something about tea…?”_ _

__Bond nods. ”Yes. Earl Grey, a dash of milk and two spoons of sugar, was it?”_ _

__Q nods but keeps quiet, fiddling with the sleeves of the sweater. They’re a bit on the long side and cover most of his hands, so that only the tips of his fingers remain visible. He doesn't really mind it, but rolls them up a bit anyway, to better hold the mug of tea Bond has left to make._ _

__When Bond returns, though, it’s with the promised tea along with a tray of biscuits. This time the biscuits are a lighter shade of brown, almost golden in hue, and filled with dark little flecks that smell strongly of Earl Grey, as well. Q is again impressed, though in retrospect he really should have expected something like this._ _

__”Another special occasion, then?” he comments after accepting his mug of tea from Bond._ _

__”Naturally,” Bond says and gestures for the tray. Q shakes his head slightly but reaches for a biscuit all the same, and the taste is even better than he thought it would be._ _

__”You’re rather spoiling me, here,” he says, tone a mix of curiosity and caution._ _

__”You, my dear Quartermaster, deserve to be spoiled,” is all Bond says to that, and what else can Q do but take another biscuit?_ _

__*_ _

__When it’s time for him to leave, Q tries to take off his borrowed sweater to give it back to Bond. The man, however, shakes his head and refuses to take it back._ _

__”You can keep it for now,” he tells Q. ”I’ll know where to find it if I need it.”_ _

__So Q leaves with the rest of the biscuits Bond made him take with him and wearing Bond’s sweater, and if he smiles a little dopily and buries his face into the collar of the sweater for a moment or a few when he’s in his flat again, no one can see _that_ except the cats. _ _

__And when he finally takes the sweater off, no sooner has he managed to put it down on his bed than it ends up under the cats. If he wants to wear it again or even return it to its rightful owner, he’ll have to fight his darlings for the privilege, and that, he quietly decides, is something he’ll _never_ tell _anyone_ , least of all Bond._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://blog.britishcornershop.co.uk/2017/04/3021/) you can find the recipe that I used as an inspiration for Bond’s biscuits this time.


End file.
